but I think I’d rather keep the bullet.
It’s mine, see, I’m not giving it up. This way you still owe me, and that’s
as good as anything. You can’t get out of this one, Henry, you can’t get it
out of me, and with this bullet lodged in my chest,
covered with your name, I will turn myself into a gun, because I’m hungry
and hollow and just want something to call my own. I’ll be your
slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue
and final resting, walking around with this bullet inside me like the bullet
was already there, like it’s been waiting inside me the whole time.